The events of this year clearly foreshowed the decay and second closing of Her Majesty's Theatre, which shortly afterwards came to pass.—No new operas were promised—nor performed. The fury of admiration for Mademoiselle Piccolomini declined as rapidly as it had risen. The attempt to raise it in Paris had been tried; but Paris, beside its settled habit of pouting at everything which London has discovered, has an audience for its Italian opera different from ours. The latter has become shifting, variable,—in every respect liable to be abused by false reports. During the year of a certain mania, I saw the sum of fourteen guineas for a box,—no matter for what—no matter to hear whom,—to hold four people, paid away; and the box accepted as a favour by its fortunate holder. The makerout of the voucher of the box aforesaid observed, drily, to his comrade at the desk, while he was blotting his ticket, “Railway People!”

This sort of random speculation and extravagance of ours, this blind, or deaf, wish to be amused by the newest thing in fashion,—which has changed the character of our foreign opera audiences;—while it has in no respect checked the love for an understanding of the best music, which has also marvellously advanced in England,—has—had at least five years ago—touched far more remotely the frequenters of the Italian opera in Paris.